


Escape

by Clxarke



Category: HTGAWM, How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood, EXTREME GUILT, M/M, Mentions of Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clxarke/pseuds/Clxarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the morning after Sam's murder, Connor is in the midst of an anxiety induced episode, trying to find a way out of this mess. He was always able to come up with a plan, but it seemed that this time there was no escape.</p><p>(Takes place before he gives Oliver the "drug addict" excuse) </p><p>WARNINGS: Depictions of gore in flashback form, Main character experiences a full blown anxiety attack and experiences (few) suicidal thoughts, Mentions of an unspecific mental disorder regarding paranoia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic prompted by Tumblr user poemsingreenink, using the prompt: 
> 
> Connor is a worrier. He can’t help it. And he can’t stop his brain from making escape plans in case they get caught. They didn’t bother him until “the one where he throws Oliver under the bus” showed up.
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Connor was always a worrier. He knew it from a young age; from the time he spent planning out an escape from every situation. Now, most people would call it normal to have an escape route in mind, but Connor would make backup plans for his backup plans. He tried to control his mind, to put himself at ease, but it never worked. He couldn’t control it. The paranoia was always too much, too powerful for him to tie down.

From the end of high school to the beginning of college, Connor found it to be less of a problem. For a while he’d though himself cured, released from the spiraling thoughts that rattled his mind.

That is, until the murder.

The murder ruined everything. It all came back, the paranoia, the escape routes, the detailed ideas of self-preservation, it all returned in a wave of anxiety and panic.

This is why Connor found himself on the floor of a bathroom he didn’t care to recognize, hugging his knees to his chest, pressing his palms over his eyes. His breathing was labored and erratic, his motions spasmodic and uncontrolled.

He dug the heels of his hands against his eyelids, trying to shove away the images.

_Sam’s lifeless eyes stared up at him with no semblance of emotion shining through, only a glint in the corners, reflecting from the porch light through the windows._

_Sam’s face drained of color right in front of him, pale yet framed in a nearly perfect halo of crimson blood, pooling slowly on the ground around him._

_Sam’s body dragged to the center of the woods and set ablaze._ The intoxicating stench of burning flesh and thick smoke was a scent that was not yet forgotten by Connor, and was recreated by his memory, making him gag.

His eyes were streaming with tears; he tore his shaking hands away from his face and squeezed his legs to his chest. Though the air smelled artificially foul, he couldn’t prevent himself from breathing; in fact, he was hyperventilating and couldn’t regain a normal pulse rate.

He stared at the tiled walls, which he’d definitely seen before but didn’t belong to him, his eyes wild with overwhelming panic. They darted around the room, but didn’t absorb any information— his mind was too busy.

He started to come up with options, ideas of how to get out of this mess.

_I could tell the police and get the others in trouble._

That was his first idea but he shot it down quickly, storing it away. There was no way he could keep his act together while turning his friends in. They might even decide to pin it all on him in return.

_I could turn myself in._

Again, not an option; sure the police might find out eventually, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. If he was going down, everyone else was going down with him.

_I could blame Annalise._

That idea wasn’t half bad when he thought about it. What better person to pin it on then her? Although, she wasn’t home when they did it so she didn’t know. Also, she would probably have a solid alibi. He shook his head dismissively. What was he thinking? That he could get an expert defense attorney sent to prison? He could never beat Annalise Keating in the courtroom and he knew it.

Running out of options was not something he had wanted to consider, but now he was staring it in the face.

_There is no way out._

He sucked in for air and choked on his sobs, causing a hacking cough to rake through his chest. He gasped and spluttered and grabbed the toilet seat for balance. It was fluffy and soft under his fingertips, confusing him for a moment before he realized it was a toilet seat cover. The only person he knew who had one of those was—

_Oliver._

_I could pin it on Oliver._

It could work, he realized. Oliver was easily manipulated and Connor could already get him in trouble for illegally hacking witnesses’ personal accounts or a company’s files. If he turned him in for that, then the murder would be plausible. Connor showed up at his apartment often enough. He could plant the evidence there with no problem. It was almost the perfect plan—

_No._

He snatched his hand off of the toilet seat, jerking his body back so he was pressed up against the opposite wall, staring at it, shocked and mortified.

How could he even _consider_ throwing Oliver under the bus? How could he even _think_ that?

His stomach lurched and he began to retch, leaning over the floor on his hands and knees. Even though he felt nauseous, nothing came up. He didn’t even taste bile. He was dry heaving, absolutely repulsed by his own thoughts, disgusted and ashamed with himself.

Oliver was pure goodness; there was not a single trait Connor didn’t love about him. Oliver was true and real; the only real thing Connor could hold onto.

Connor had been so reluctant to start a relationship. He was afraid that it would all be temporary and unsatisfying like everything else in his life.

 _Nothing ever lasts,_ he had convinced himself once upon a time, _so you always look for a way out, that way you can end up unscathed instead of heartbroken._

It was better to be detached then suffering.

But Oliver tore all of that apart and stripped away that feeling. Oliver, who had felt so inadequate compared to him, hadn’t known of the baggage Connor was carrying. He hadn’t known what he was going to deal with when he entrusted Connor with his loyalty and his heart. He didn’t know, but he did it anyway— on a whim, on a hope. Connor had been astonished at how freely Oliver bestowed every part of himself onto Connor. Oliver was able to care so freely…

_I guess that’s what love is._

Connor had just considered throwing all of that away over a problem that Oliver wasn’t involved in, a situation of which Oliver was not at fault. That wasn’t what people did to those that they loved. You don’t use them as a scapegoat just to save yourself. _Just the opposite_ , Connor thought, _you do everything in your power to save them._

 _You do whatever it takes_.

Not even twenty minutes later there was hushed knocking on the door as someone rapped their knuckles against the painted wood.

“Connor?” Oliver’s soft voice was groggy and thick with exhaustion. Just the sound of his name made Connor shiver. “Are you alright? You’ve been in there a while. Do you want to talk yet?”

Connor took a few seconds in a fruitless attempt to stabilize his breathing. There was no masking the anxiety in his voice, the tears and hiccups muffling his words.

“I’m fine.” He croaked, sniffling and gasping, before allowing another wave of sobs too overtake him.

He heard Oliver try the handle once before leaning against the door. It seemed that Oliver wanted to be close to him, so much so, that he was trying to deny the door’s object permanence and to push his way through. “Come on, Connor. Don’t lie to me. Tell me what’s happened.” Oliver’s soothing voice carried so much care that Connor nearly cringed.

Connor let loose a hysterical laugh, but he didn’t actually find any of this funny; he did, however, find it slightly ironic.

There Oliver was, pleading for Connor to tell the truth, to admit what happened that night, when Connor had already decided to keep Oliver out of it. To mention any event in the past few hours would get Oliver involved.

It dawned on him that all he was going do for the rest of his life was lie to Oliver.

The idea of keeping everything to himself made him shut down the rush of plans and escape ideas. The overwhelming urge to save himself was muffled, not entirely destroyed, yet smothered to the point where it was static, white noise, that played in the very back of his head.

“I’ll tell you after I’ve showered.” Connor managed through his jagged breaths. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach from all of the empty heaving, causing him to double over. “Please, don’t leave me.” He whispered through a gasp, though he knew Oliver hadn’t heard it.

He heard Oliver sigh on the other side of the door. It was soft and reluctant, like he was too tired to argue.

“Okay.” Oliver hesitated slightly before continuing. “You promise?”

Connor glanced up at the door, putting all of his emotions and adoration into that one look, though Oliver couldn’t see him. It was almost funny how that was the only time Connor had the strength to do that. The symbolism of that was uncanny.

It was funny that their promise was whispered through a locked door.

Funny in the saddest way Connor had ever known.

“I promise.”

Truly he was saying, _I promise to keep you safe, no matter what the cost._

Because that’s what love is.

 

He heard Oliver’s footsteps grow faint, and ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair, trying to force the thoughts from his mind.  
Now he had to come up with a plan for what to tell Oliver. That alone made him want to die, but death would mean a life not spent with Oliver; so he planned out his excuses.

And thus the lies began.


End file.
